father's comfortable old chair till the time comes for me to go. And I
will promise to drink all the soup and to put on all my wraps, if you,
Aria, will go to bed as usual and try to sleep till I come back again.
The only thing that would make me lose courage would be to leave you
standing at the door looking after me. I may sleep myself. I daresay I
shall, if I know you are in bed. For I am certain I shall wake in good
time. As to that I have no fear."
Rather reluctantly, Aria consented to do as Linde wished, on condition
that the little girl gave her promise to come to her at once on her
return, and to arouse her if by chance she were sleeping.
Linde sat by the fire and listened to the ticking of the old clock, and
the occasional fall of a cinder, till her eyes grew drowsy and she
dozed. Though not conscious of being really asleep, she felt as if but a
few minutes had passed, when the clock striking--more loudly than usual,
it seemed to her--made her start.
"One, two, three," she counted, on to eleven.
"Yes, actually eleven," she said to herself. "I have had a nice long
sleep and I feel quite fresh, and it is time to be off."
She drank the soup, and wrapped herself up; and after laying a large log
on the fire, there to smoulder till she came back, she softly opened the
door and stepped out, closing it again, though happily, in that peaceful
and friendly part of the world, there was no need for bars or bolts.
A little exclamation of surprise escaped her as she glanced about her.
It was full moon--the garden and the open space between it and the
beginning of the forest were flooded with light. Somehow she had not
expected this. In fact, relying upon the mysterious guidance and help
which she felt sure would be given to her, she had not troubled herself
beforehand about how it was all to be managed, and the sisters went so
early to bed that they were often asleep before moonrise, if it were
late.
Linde smiled to herself with pleasure and ran gaily through the garden
and along the field-path. And for some little way inside the forest her
route was quite clear. But after a while it grew darker. The trees
became more dense, and denser still she knew they would be the farther
she advanced. So she walked more slowly, looking well about her, and now
and then pressing the three precious feathers in the front of her
bodice.
"The great thing is not to miss the little path," she kept repeating,
and after she had walked what seemed a considerable way, she began to
fear she had done so.
Then for the first time her courage threatened to fail her, and her
heart took to beating much faster than was pleasant. She stood still.
Strange uncanny sounds seemed in the air. Wailings far off among the
trees; faint groans and stealthy rustlings as if some weird creatures
were trying to get near her, a sudden sharp screech--it was only an owl,
but that the child did not know!--and then the very curious, very thin
and minute squeal of a bat, so seldom audible to human ears.
"Oh dear," whispered Linde. "Robin, have you tricked me? I don't know
where I am, and though it is so lonely, I seem to feel invisible
creatures all about me. Oh, robin, you didn't tell me it would be so
difficult to find the way."
Then something touched her foot; she gave a little scream, till looking
down she perceived a point of light just in front of her, and heard a
well-known voice.
"Foolish child," it said. "You might trust me. This is the entrance to
the path. You have only to follow me."
"Are you carrying a lamp--a fairy lamp?" asked Linde in a tone of great
relief. "Why--I could fancy it was a glow-worm, only it is far too late
in the year."
"You are right," said her guide. "It is a glow-worm. We take care of
them--they sleep down below all the winter. But I woke up this fellow
on purpose. He is quite comfortable on my back. Now we must make haste.
Follow me steadily till we come to the magic circle. Then you must act
for yourself--you know what to do."
He flew forward--near enough to the ground for Linde to keep the tiny
light well in view. And to her surprise she found she could make her way
quite easily without stumbling or hesitation, and now and then a faint
whiff of scent reached her, as if to increase her confidence, though
whether it was wafted back from the redbreast's wings or upwards from
the little bunch of feathers, she could not have told.
And at last--for, after all, making your way in the dark is very
monotonous work--the light stopped just in front of her, and she
realised that she was standing before the thickly growing bushes which
hedged the clearing. And before she had time to wonder how to push her
way through, the shrubs seemed to divide, as if held back by invisible
hands, and through the opening thus made, Linde caught sight of the
magic circle gleaming like silver in the moonlight.
Her guide had vanished, but now without hesitation she ran forward,
till she reached the central spot, where the rose-bush had risen to
view, and whence she had been told she would find her way to the unknown
regions below.
She stood still for a moment or two, somewhat dazzled by the sudden
radiance, soft and lovely though it was. Then she stooped and examined
the ground, but the smooth, even turf showed not the least sign of an
opening of any kind, such as she had half expected to see. As she stood
up again her fingers touched the front of her dress and she remembered
the feathers.
"I am to tap with them," she reminded herself. "But not till the fairy
clock strikes twelve. Shall I ask what time it is now? No, I think it is
better to wait quietly. I am sure I am not too late, but I think it must
be nearly midnight."
She felt curiously calm, and very wide-awake. There was not the very
slightest sound to be heard--a complete contrast to the surrounding
forest--not a rustle, not a murmur, never had Linde before realised what
utter silence could be. She almost felt as if she herself should not
move a finger, scarcely even breathe. And when in a little she became
conscious that her heart was again beating much faster than its wont,
she felt as if she must press it tightly to make it be quiet. And the
gesture once more recalled the feathers. She drew them out.
"Best have them ready," she thought.
Then she stood motionless.
And suddenly, coming upwards to her, and yet sounding in the silent air
as if all around her, came the fairy chimes--one, two, three, four, for
the completed hour, and then the sweet musical deeper note, twelve times
repeated.
Linde was all alert.
She stooped at once and tapped three times with the three tiny feathers.
And then what exactly happened she could not have told. She felt herself
lifted a little way and made somehow or other to sit down on what seemed
a soft cushion. It was really a thick, round sod of turf, and as soon as
she was seated on it, it began to descend--down, down, making her at
first feel rather giddy, though it moved slowly. She shut her eyes, and
the giddiness left her. Then she opened them, but all seemed darkness
for some seconds, till a faint light began to creep up, growing brighter
as her strange journey continued, and at last steadying into a pleasant
glow, not glaring or bewildering, but clear and bright, so as to show
all surrounding objects distinctly.
Linde sprang to her feet in delight. She was in the sweetest place she
had ever dreamed of. Sweet in every sense, for it was a small garden of
the beautiful rose-bushes, like the one the robin had shown her. And the
scent was the exquisite one so familiar to her.
She was standing at the entrance to a sort of bower, or niche, in the
midst of the fragrant bushes, and glancing into it she saw that there
was a little hillock in its centre, and on this hillock were perched
what at first seemed to her hundreds of redbreasts. In reality, I think
there were about fifty--all motionless, till from their midst flew out
one, whom by some instinct Linde recognised as her old friend.
"Birds," he said, for, to the fairy-touched ears of the child, chirps
were words, "birds! She has come. And the time has come. Friends, bid
her welcome."
And a lovely welcome it was which poured from the many little throats.
"Thank you, dear robins," said Linde, feeling sure that she was expected
to say something, "thank you, dear birds. You know I love you, and I do
hope you will soon come to live in the forest again. But now please
tell me what it is you want me to do."
There was a sudden loud flutter of wings. All the robins at the same
moment flew upwards from the hillock and perched themselves in clusters
among the rose-trees which formed the bower. Only one remained on the
hillock. Linde knew him for her guide. Beside him lay a small bright
object. It was a finely made and polished spade.
He touched it with one of his claws.
"Take this, Linde," he said solemnly, "and dig. But first, stroke it
with the three feathers."
"Where am I to dig?" asked the little girl, as she obeyed him.
"Here of course," was the reply, "here. It is the tomb of our ancestor,
where for fifty years he has lain entranced."
Linde lifted the spade. It was beautifully light.
"What a dear little tool it is!" she thought to herself. "I wish they
would let me keep it. It would be lovely for careful digging round the
delicate tiny roots that are so easily damaged."
But these reflections she kept to herself, for she felt the fifty pairs
of bright eyes upon her. Just at present it was a question of doing what
she was told.
So she stroked the spade with her tiny feather posy, and then stepped
forward close to the green mound. In her heart she felt doubtful as to
whether the toy spade would be strong enough to cut through the turf.
But as the robin flew up to a neighbouring branch, thus leaving the
coast quite clear for her operations, there was nothing for it but to
try. And to her satisfaction the blade glided through the sods almost
without any effort of hers. In fact it seemed to direct her movements,
so that in a very short time a neat round hole was made in the little
hillock, revealing a sort of nest of the well-known dried rose-leaves,
in the midst of which lay the tiny body of a--to all appearance
dead--robin redbreast.
"Lift him," whispered her friend, evidently in the greatest excitement.
Linde did so, carefully and almost reverently. He was a most beautiful
bird, a king of his kind. His feathers were smooth, his breast rich in
colouring, his eyes closed. There was nothing death-like or painful
about him, except--ah yes--Linde could not repress a little shiver at
the sight--a small dart or arrow transfixed the dainty body, pinning one
wing to his side, where a drop of blood told its cruel tale.
"Draw it out," came the next command.
"I feel as if it would hurt him," murmured Linde tremulously. But there
came a sort of trill of entreaty from the fifty watchers, and she felt
that she must obey. So mastering her own misgiving, she took firm hold
of the head of the dart, and deftly drew it out, thinking as she did so,
"It will hurt him less if I do it quickly."
It took some little strength, but it did not break, and to her surprise
the hole it should have left, disfiguring the pretty creature, closed at
once. Then the bird gave a sudden shiver, a thrill of returning life
passed through him--Linde herself was conscious of it in her
fingers--his eyes unclosed; he looked up at her, then, with a wonderful
note of exceeding joy, he spread his wings and flew round the bower,
returning again to perch on the child's still outstretched hand, as if
in gratitude.
[Illustration: With a wonderful note of exceeding joy, he spread his
wings and flew round the bower, returning again to perch on the child's
still outstretched hand, as if in gratitude.]
And then--and then--oh if you could have heard the carol of delight that
burst out from the comrades of the spell-freed redbreast! It was too
beautiful to describe; nor could it be described in human language. For
after all, exquisite as may be the bird songs--nightingales' or
thrushes', blackbirds' or larks', which delight us, it cannot, I fear,
fall to our lot to hear them, as did favoured Linde, in fairyland!
She stood enraptured till the melody subsided and there was silence
again, broken by the voice of the small master of the ceremonies.
"It is done," he said, "and perfectly done. The spell is broken, the sad
enchantment ended. The forest is our own again. Our beloved ancestor
restored to us and to the life of which he was so cruelly deprived
before he had had his rightful share."
"Oh the joy of it, the joy of it!" trilled the resuscitated bird, as he
fluttered from Linde's hand to her shoulder, and a chorus of sympathy
burst out again.
But Linde's guide had not yet finished his speech. He held up one claw
and there was silence.
"Friends," he began again. "What is to be this maiden's reward for what
she has done? Our gracious lady protector, the Queen of the Fairies, has
left it to us to decide. We must be generous as well as grateful, for
Linde deserves it of us--and remember, but for her sweet and loving
nature, not all her courage in braving alone the cold and darkness could
have succeeded. Brothers, shall we let her choose her reward?"
A universal chirp of "Yes, yes" was the reply.
So the speaker turned again to the little girl.
"Linde," he said, "good Linde, you who have never been guilty of a cruel
unkind deed, Linde, you who have been brave and obedient, what do you
choose?"
"Oh robin, dear robin," she exclaimed, "I think you must know already.
The leaves, the delicious leaves from the redbreast's roses--if we may
always have these, Aria and I will be safe and happy. I will come to
fetch them in the middle of the night or whenever you like--and," she
added, with a little smile, "_might_ I have the fairy spade too?"
The robin held up his claw again.
"Yes, yes," came the answer in bird language, followed by some chirps
which Linde's ears were not yet "fairy-wise" enough to translate.
"Your requests are granted," said the president. "You may keep the
spade," for it was still lying beside her. "Small as it is, it is
endowed with magic power. If you keep it bright and clean it will do
good work in your garden. And my friends and relations, headed by our
revered ancestor," he waved his claw, and the kingly robin fluttered to
Linde's head, where he gave an approving chirp, replied to by the
audience, "desire me to say that it will not be necessary for you to
fetch the leaves. You will only require to place the old jar on the
window-sill overnight whenever it needs replenishing, laying the three
feathers inside it; and in the morning it will be filled as you wish."
"Thank you, thank you," cried Linde again, "and now, dear robins, I must
hurry home. I shall never forget this lovely place. May I never come
again?"
Her guide answered rather sadly.
"I fear not. Few, very few, mortals have come even as far as an entrance
to fairyland. Nor could you ever find this spot again, try as you might.
But we--we robins, will often see you in the forest, no longer forbidden
ground."
"Yes, that is true," Linde replied cheerfully. "Then good-night--not
good-bye, to you all, and please tell me how I am to get up again to the
clearing, so as to run home to relieve Aria's anxiety and tell her the
good news."
"That _we_ will manage," said her first friend. "Birds!"
There was an answering flutter.
"Seat yourself comfortably, my child, and close your eyes."
Linde obeyed, but not before seeing and feeling that all the assembled
robins were flying down and surrounding her, so that with the velvety
softness of the grassy sod and the fluffy feeling of the feathered
creatures encircling her, she seemed in a cosy nest, and already
somewhat sleepy. Then a slight touch on the top of her head made her
start a little.
"It is only we two," chirped her guide, "I and the noble bird who owes
his life to you. We are here to direct the air voyage. Rest, my child,
rest and be at peace."
Linde did not know that she fell asleep, though afterwards she knew it
must have been so. She felt herself rising, rising--then a breath of
colder air met her face, and--that was all she knew, till--she awoke,
and found herself in the porch of the cottage, and--to prove the night's
adventures had been no dream, in one hand the little spade, in the other
the three red feathers, still firmly clasped.
She was a very practical maiden, in spite of her fairy perceptions, so
the first thing she did was to lay the small treasures safely in the old
jar, saying to herself, and "to-morrow night--no, I should say to-night,
we will place it outside on the window-sill and in the morning it will
be filled with the lovely leaves. What news, what joy to tell Aria!"
She ran upstairs--softly--but her sister was awake.
"Darling," she said, "are you really safely back? Yet I have not been
anxious. Somehow I felt you were all right and I have had a peaceful
sleep."
Then Linde told her the whole wonderful story and showed her the little
spade. And at night you may be sure they did not forget to put the jar
in the appointed place, to find it in the morning replenished with
rose-leaves whose perfume seemed even more delicious than ever before.
So Saturday found them with plenty of their treasured wares for sale,
and quickly were they bought.
Nor was this only temporary good fortune.
The fame of their dried roses spread far and wide, and orders came from
great distances, so that the two sisters were able not only to go on
living together in greater comfort than they had ever known, but even to
lay aside savings for a possible "rainy day."
Though as far as I could learn--this story, you know, is of a fairly
long ago "once upon a time"--that day never came to the happy girls.
The robins never failed them. The cottage garden and the neighbouring
forest grew to be famed for the peculiarly beautiful redbreasts which
there abounded. The uncanny reputation of the woods was quite forgotten,
and on the contrary it was said to bring good luck to those who often
strolled about in them.
I think both Aria and Linde married in due time and had happy homes of
their own. One or other certainly did so, for the country-folk of that
remote part of the world, from whom I learnt the story, showed me a
specially lovely rose--"the robins' rose," it was called, and told me
that it had been cultivated by the descendants of the sisters, till, for
some reasons which I could not discover, the family had moved elsewhere.
"And they do say," added one aged dame, "that they grew to be rich and
important, much looked up to and respected, which one can believe, if
they took after their great-grandmothers and were favoured by the 'good
people,' as those pretty maidens were."
I suppose the old jar and the magic spade were carried away as
heirlooms, for though I looked about in some very curious antique shops
in the neighbouring town, hoping to find one or both, I never succeeded
in doing so, nor could I trace the family at all, which is scarcely to
be wondered at, as no one still living remembered the sisters save by
the quaint names of "Aria" and "Linde"--names which I love, and which I
hope this story may lead others to love also.
A Magic Table
Once upon a time--how long ago really does not matter--there lived in a
certain country--and where that country is, does not matter
either--three young men of about the same age. They were not brothers,
but they had always been neighbours, and they must have been some sort
of cousins, for they had an old relation whom they all called uncle and
who called them all nephews.
"Nephew Hodge," "nephew Giles," and "nephew Michael." Those were their
names, though I fancy the last--he was the youngest--was more often
"Mike" than "Michael."
They were all three steady, well-behaved fellows, and very friendly with
each other, which was natural as in several ways their circumstances
were curiously alike. They were all orphans, and though Hodge and Giles
had sisters, these were married and settled at a distance, and as for
Mike he had nobody at all belonging to him, and as he was a very
affectionate creature, but for his two friends he would have felt lonely
indeed. They were all poor--very poor--the one thing each had inherited
from his parents was a home, such as it was. Just a small cottage with a
bit of garden ground, which in their leisure hours each cultivated to
the best of his ability, thus growing some hardy fruit and vegetables
which helped to support them, and a few pretty flowers, to brighten
things up a bit.
They had a little friendly rivalry over these tiny gardens. Hodge's
produced the best vegetables, Giles's the finest fruit, but young
Michael's far and away the loveliest flowers. And instead of quarrelling
as to which of them deserved the most praise as a gardener, like
sensible fellows, each gave a present to the other two of his special
triumphs.
There was still another curious bond between the three--which in most
cases would have been the very reverse of a bond, and pretty certainly
would have dissolved the friendship. They were all in love with the same
girl. A charming girl she was, but of her, more shall be told hereafter.
Perhaps the hopelessness of their admiration for her helped to keep the
peace, for they were far too poor to aspire to her, as she was a damsel
with a dowry of gold and silver, as well as of sweet looks and sweet
character. So the three used to sit together and sing her praises with
no bitterness or jealousy.
The cottages stood at some distance apart, half or a quarter of a mile
or so between them. So that in busy seasons, such as hay-making or
harvesting, our friends sometimes saw very little of each other for days
at a time, as they were not labourers on the same farm. But the long
dull winter evenings they made a point of spending together, taking
their cottages in turns as a meeting-place, for as to comfort, the three
dwellings were much of a muchness, though Mike's somehow always looked
the nicest, as in summer he adorned it with his flowers, and even in
winter managed to tie up bunches of pretty leaves and bright-coloured
berries to give his kitchen a cheerful air.
And besides these friendly evenings, the three young men always met on
Sundays, and that all the year round. For on that day they had a
standing invitation to dine with the old uncle, who was, as I forgot to
say, also godfather to all three.
This personage was in some ways very peculiar and indeed rather
mysterious. Strange stories were whispered concerning him through the
country-side. Some said that he was a wizard; nearly all agreed that, at
best, he had dealings with "the good people." But though to a certain
extent he was feared, he was not disliked, as on more than one occasion
he was known to have shown great kindness to families in distress,
though how he came to hear so quickly of other folks' troubles remained
a mystery, as he lived at a considerable distance from any other
dwelling, and was too infirm ever to leave his own cottage.
He was of course reputed to be very rich, but that, as you will learn,
was a mistake. And a miser he could not well be called, considering the
kind actions I have alluded to, and the steady hospitality he showed to
his godsons, Hodge, Giles, and Michael. The truth was--and there need be
no secret about it--that "Uncle Peter" had a small pension for life,
sufficient to keep him in simple comfort. For long ago he had been a
soldier and a brave one, though he seldom talked of those old days. Sad
things had happened to him, and for many years he had been a lonely man
before, just about the time these grandnephews of his were born, he
wandered back to the part of the country which had been his home as a
boy, there, like Rip Van Winkle, to find none of his generation left,
though he made friends in his own way with the remaining members of his
family and their children.